“Shhhh, the baby’s sleeping”. Thus runs the opening line of the Evil Nine’s ‘Crooked’, and that seemed to be the foremost thought in the minds of the night’s groups, each of which seemed to get progressively quieter than the last. There was quality in all four acts, but the restricted dynamic range made for a muted evening, both literally and emotionally, at least until the final group.

Anton Barbeau is a Californian, now resident in Cambridge and a regular visitor to Oxford. He specialises in fairly mainstream pop rock wedded to a sardonic, slightly laborious verbal humour. Think The Presidents of the USA, with an accent reminiscent of one of the minor Beatles. On this occasion, he was backed by a cloddish backing band which hobbled his best numbers- the light, easy touch of his fine recent album was sacrificed in the cause of by-the-numbers rocking out. He’s better as a solo act.

Surprise of the night was the excellent Ivan Campo, a folky three-piece named, for some reason , after a workmanlike Bolton midfielder. Strengths included pristine tripartite harmony, edgy, unsentimental lyrics and tight, clean, percussive playing. One could see them becoming an English Fleet Foxes without all of the disturbing feyness of the Seattle wonders. Keep an eye out.

Less successful were The Vatican Cellars, another low-voltage acoustic act, this time drenched in Seventies-era country folk. If you liked The Magic Numbers you may like them. The vocalist looks like a young David Morrissey and sings in a croon not unreminiscent of that other Morrissey (you know, the guy from the Smiths). Truth be told, it’s better on record than live. The ultra-laid-back vibe, composed in part of melodeons and cellos, comes across, even in an intimate venue like The Jericho, as dull and lifeless. It didn’t help that the capacity crowd talked loudly throughout the performance. Check their Myspace page to catch them in better form.

In contrast, Stornoway were in tremendous fettle, and why not, given their recent news concerning Glastonbury? Singer Brian Briggs has one of the best voices in Oxford, perhaps the best, and he seems to be permanently tapped into an inexhaustible seam of Celtic folk melody, timeless and deathless. The band is in superb nick, with Jon Ouin shining on cello and keys and brother Adam blowing up a storm on trumpet. A while back, myself and others criticised the group for mixing their most sublime material with superficial vaudevillian numbers such as the execrable ‘Good Fish Guide’ but that’s not a moan that can be legitimately made now. Last night’s set was beautifully balanced, and the quality remained high throughout. Indeed, the established crowd-pleaser ‘Zorbing’ suffered a little compared to new numbers like the lilting, irresistible ‘Fuel Up’. The harmonies by Ouin and Ollie Steadman were to die for. This band is getting even better.

But in addition to the excellence of the writing, singing and playing, Stornoway aren’t backwards about springing the occasional coup de theatre. Halfway through the set, the band unplugged and set up in the middle of the packed audience to perform three numbers without any amplification. At first I thought this was an exercise in redundancy: Stornoway are a low-volume acoustic act, so what’s the point in chucking the amps? The answer is that a greater connection was made with the audience, who promptly shut up during the songs and gave thunderous applause. Not all of it was to my taste: ‘We are the Battery Human’ sounded like a version of ‘Kum Ba Ya’ for atheists, but ‘Gondwandaland’ remains a testament to the band’s sense of awe and wonder, and was beautifully rendered. Oxford is due for another national success: I hope it is them.